


Magic in the Ma(s)king

by Heath17_KO5, SeaWallFics



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: Christmas, F/F, happy holigays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28292112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heath17_KO5/pseuds/Heath17_KO5, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeaWallFics/pseuds/SeaWallFics
Summary: Night janitor Tobin isn't sold on going to Excellent Press's masquerade Christmas Party, but her life might just change forever if she gets a chance to talk to CEO Press.a.k.a.The Cinderella Preath AU
Relationships: Tobin Heath/Christen Press
Comments: 38
Kudos: 338
Collections: Preathfics Winter 2020 Collection





	1. If not by Christmas...

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays! This is a bit different from the other works in the collection in that it's a collaboration and will have 2 chapters, so here is part 1. My lovely co-author Seawallfics will be posting part 2 tomorrow. Wishing everyone a happy and healthy holidays! 2020 is almost over! xx

She almost doesn’t go. The email had said, “company-wide” but how often did that really include the janitorial staff? It wasn’t like she really knew anybody in the company. She hadn’t really made friends there. That was the side effect of working the evening janitorial shift. She always arrived when everyone else was heading home. 

“This will be your chance to meet some people then,” her friend Lauren had argued. 

“Masked,” Tobin had pointed out. “Company-wide Office Holiday Masquerade! Come dressed for holiday cheer and don’t forget your mask! Come enjoy some food and drink with your colleagues!” the email had read. 

So here she is, tugging at the hem of her red and green checkered suit coat, wondering if she really wants to actually go inside. 

She takes her mask off and looks at it. She’d found it at this cute little thrift store that she’d never really noticed before, though she wasn’t quite sure how that was the case given the bright red and gold paint that adorned the storefront and the bold red door featuring the most decorative wreath Tobin had ever laid eyes on. The mask had been handed to her by the odd little old lady inside, the woman's kind brown eyes peering at her from behind a pair of dark red spectacles with a secretive smile and a knowing look. She'd bought the gold colored disguise without trying it on, the shop owner's mystifying behavior making her uneasy enough to hurry it up and get out of there. She needn’t set foot in the shop every again now that she had what she needed for the party.

Playing for time, she finds herself studying the mask in her hands, gaze traveling from the slanted eye holes to the intricate details of scrolling leaves and vines that surrounded them. She's still surprised by how well it fits and how warm it feels against her cheeks. There's barely any weight to it when she wears it, even if it feels somewhat heavy between her fingers now.

She hears some people coming up behind her towards the entrance and quickly dons the mask, then, with one more deep breath, she steps inside. 

Expecting a tacky explosion of all things Christmas, Tobin's pleasantly surprised by Conference Room 2's tasteful decorations. The large room's usual large rectangular tables have been replaced by cosy couches and stuffed chairs in one corner. The flicker of flames from the fake fireplace draws attention to the tall fir tree standing beside it, highlighting its pretty glass ornaments. There's no evidence left of the usual frosty interior of the room and its cosy design pulls her over the threshold and into its welcoming warmth. A few heads turn her way while speculating murmurs reach her ears over modestly playing background music. They won't recognize her because most of these people don't even know her. Not really. Ignoring the curious stares, she makes her way to the drinks table, cursing her eye catching colored suit, but thankful for the mask she's wearing and the opportunity to hide herself behind it.

She gets a cup full of punch and gravitates towards a corner, her eyes sweeping over the other attendants. The HR people huddling together, pointing out the problem people in a way that Tobin thinks isn’t exactly subtle. Upper management all cropped together as if even at a party they can’t be bothered to mingle with their underlings. The secretaries loudly laughing together. They’ve always seemed like a fun crowd, but Tobin only ever encounters them one at a time, staying late to make extra copies, and she never wants to keep them, never wants to make them stay even later. 

She's waiting for Dagny to walk through the door any moment now and rescue her from social exile, a hope dashed by a rather abrupt text message telling her she's on her own tonight due to a sick kid. Wonderful. 

She contemplates just leaving. 

No one will even miss her. 

A short man in a sweater that might well be pictured next to “ugly Christmas sweater” in the dictionary approaches her, and she braces herself for interaction. 

“Nice suit!” he says, raising his drink to her. 

“Thanks,” she mumbles. “Nice, uh, sweater.”

He laughs. “Isn’t it great? My wife hates this thing, but I think it’s glorious. Can’t have a Christmas party without an ugly Christmas sweater, right?” 

He continues to babble on, and Tobin makes the appropriate noises in response, her eyes continuing to scan the room, glancing back politely to the man she’s talking to from time to time. She's bored to tears. Wishes she hadn't listened to Lauren and her persuasive arguments. Meeting people sure sounded nice, but is Sweater Guy ever going to stop talking to her? She sure hopes he's not flying solo like she is tonight, making her his unwanted buddy for the rest of the evening.

Right when she’s about to try to lie her way out of the conversation, she becomes aware of someone approaching. 

Her breath catches in her throat when she realizes exactly who it is, as the woman (because it is a woman - the most gorgeous one around) informs Sweater Guy that someone is looking for him over by the tree. 

Tobin’s eyes trail up over a dress that fades from the white of snowflakes up to a dark green, hugging over smooth curves and cut a hint low - not inappropriate, but, well —

And then she realizes that she’s checking out her boss. CEO Press in all of her Christmassy glory, complete with Santa fuzz trimming the dress looks absolutely stunning, but she is still the CEO of the company. 

She feels her cheeks flush with color, thankful for the mask that covers part of her face, and she brings her eyes up to meet ones that are a stunning shade of sea green. They dance with amusement behind her delicate black mask, and there’s a smile on CEO Press’s face as she says in a low, almost conspiratorial voice, “Xander is an excellent accountant, but he’s a bit of a bore.”

Tobin chuckles nervously. “Well, thank you, Ms. Press. I appreciate the save.”

“I don’t think you need to be quite so formal. This is a party after all.” 

Tobin can’t help watching the way her nose wrinkles adorably as she says it. 

“Call me Christen, please.”

Tobin nods, unsure of what else to say. Christen doesn’t seem to have that problem. Poised as always, she continues. “Are you having fun? Please tell me that Xander didn’t trap you in conversation as soon as you arrived.”

Tobin offers a small, apologetic smile. “Sadly...he kinda did.” 

“Well, we’re definitely going to need to fix that.”

  
  


They’ve been talking for a good ten minutes (and Tobin’s been thoroughly enjoying them) before it occurs to her that Christen might not know exactly who she is. She hasn’t said anything to that effect, or asked her name, but there’s a way that she’s almost skirting around any personal detail questions that give Tobin the impression that she FEELS like she should know who Tobin is, and doesn’t really want to admit that she doesn’t. Tobin could be offended, but the truth is that there’s no real reason why Christen SHOULD know who she is. She’s showing up as people are heading out more often than not, and when CEO Press stays late, Tobin avoids her office until she’s gone, not wanting to disturb her work. Why would the CEO recognize the lowly night janitor on sight? Especially with a mask firmly in place. Right now she could be anyone in the company. 

She could tell her, she’s aware, introduce herself in a way that doesn’t embarrass her, but, well, there’s something kind of nice about not being known, too, about that possibility of her being anyone. And the truth is that she’s enjoying the conversation with Christen. She’s enjoying the way that she throws her head back when she laughs, the way her curls bounce when she flicks her head to the side, the way her lips curve up into a beautiful smile, the way she leans a little closer when she points out that Crystal from IT is actually the unsung hero of the company, always going above and beyond, always there to bounce ideas off of when Christen gets stuck on something. If Christen finds out she’s just a janitor, would she keep talking to her? Tobin’s not sure, but she’d rather not find out. 

Christen doesn’t seem to have a negative word to say about any of her employees, Tobin notices, Xander’s conversational skills notwithstanding. And she’s much more hands-on than Tobin had realized. She really is the backbone of the company. She’s even responsible for many of the nicer details of the party: the stockings with personalized notes for each employee, the overall theme of the decor, and even the playlist. 

“I don’t think I’ve heard ‘Jingle Bells Rock’ once so far. That’s kind of impressive,” Tobin comments, and Christen laughs. 

“That is because it is on my no play list. That and ‘Santa Baby’. Can’t stand them.”

“What about ‘Little Drummer Boy’?” Tobin asks. 

“Prettier song, but what new parent needs some kid with his drum showing up?” Christen replies with a grin. 

Tobin laughs. “That’s exactly what my sister said after my nephew was born.”

  
  


Talking makes way to dancing as the punch flows freely and people loosen up more. 

Christen dances her way back onto the makeshift dance floor and crooks her finger towards Tobin, inviting her to join. 

Suddenly the tie around her neck feels like it's slowly choking her. She pulls at the knot to loosen it just the slightest bit, pointer finger tugging at the stiff collar of the black button up she wears underneath the suit jacket everyone who’s walked by keeps complimenting her on. The words “hot under the collar” run through her mind. Christen makes her hot, no question.

She shouldn’t. She’s her boss. She’s —

“Come dance with me!” Christen calls out. 

She feels envious eyes burning into her. She’s not the only one who has maybe a bit of a crush on their stunning CEO and Christen is out there looking like the belle of the ball, the pleated skirt splaying out as she spins. The faux fur lining of the modestly filled cups of Christen's dress draws Tobin's eyes to inappropriate places for a second or two before she catches herself. 

“Come on!” Christen entices her again, and Tobin gives in. 

It’s just one night. Just one song, even, she tells herself. There’s no harm in dancing with her boss. It’s a party, after all. And she’s masked. Worse comes to worse, she’ll say it wasn’t her. 

If anyone asks later, Tobin will have no idea what song they're dancing to. It's something fast and fun and it makes her heart beat faster or maybe that's just Christen and the way her body twists and twirls so close to Tobin's. They're laughing and making fun of each other's dorkiest moves and it leaves them breathless but exhilarated. One song bleeds into another and Tobin finds herself unwilling to move away. 

Surely Christen as CEO has other people to see, other people to talk to, but she doesn’t seem like she’s eager to leave her company, and Tobin —

Tobin can’t get enough of bright green eyes, of fleeting touches, of the warmth settling tight in her chest. 

It feels like Christen is dancing closer and closer, and Tobin wants to pull her in, to hold her close, to be brave, to do something a little reckless.

But job security is nice, too, so she doesn’t. She lets Christen set the tone and the distance. That doesn’t stop her skin from burning where Christen’s fingers brush the back of her hand, doesn’t stop the way her breath catches in her throat when Christen’s hip accidentally bumps hers. 

  
  


Another song ends and the familiar intro of yet another Christmas Classic has Tobin rethinking her decision not to push things, just a little. 

The introductory chords are slower than those of the songs before. Friends are clearing off of the dancefloor, making more room for the more inebriated and the couples, and Tobin, a moment of daring taking hold of her, moves closer, quietly asking for another dance. 

She can’t help but have one eye on the clock. She can’t miss the last train towards home or she’ll be shelling out for a hotel that she can’t really afford for the night. She’d rather spend her money on presents for her nephews and nieces. Then again, she’d rather while away the night with Christen. 

She holds her breath for a second, then two, and then Christen willingly bridges a few of the inches between them, her left hand finding the dip above Tobin's hip. Another moment of boldness and Tobin slides her palm against Christen’s other hand, takes another step closer, then brings their clasped hands up and lightly presses them against her sternum. It's instinctual and too intimate for the occasion. She half expects Christen to pull away, to say it’s too much, to leave her abandoned and embarrassed in the middle of the dance floor. But she doesn’t. Christen seems fine with it and that's the only thing that matters. With Tobin's right hand finding a home on Christen's slender waist, they're dancing again.

Her feet feel like they’re flying as she twirls Christen around the dance floor. She can feel eyes on the two of them, watching, some surprised, some envious, and maybe she puts on an extra flourish here and there, just because she can. Christen’s body is warm pressed to hers, her breath falling hotly against her cheek, and it’s a lot, she knows. Too much for an office Christmas party and yet —

She wants to capture this moment, freeze it in time, because it feels perfect. She came here tonight not anticipating having any fun at all and here she is dancing the night away with the most beautiful woman she’s ever laid eyes on, the envy of all around her. Whoever CEO Press was in her mind before tonight, the reality has proven so much better. She’s kind and funny and light on her feet and easy to talk to, and Tobin finds herself smiling brightly as she gives Christen another spin. 

But then Christen’s personal secretary, Rose, is tapping Christen on the shoulder, whispering in her ear, ahd Christen’s stepping away, offering an apologetic smile. 

“Apparently somebody had too good of a time at their own Christmas party and crashed their brand new Mazzerati. Sorry. I really need to take this call.” 

Tobin tells herself that she’s not disappointed as Christen walks away. She tells herself that her body doesn’t feel suddenly cold at the absence of Christen’s body pressed to her. 

“Save a dance for me!” Christen calls over her shoulder as she leaves the conference room, and Tobin feels something flutter low in her stomach. 

  
  


Her night is almost done, she knows. She needs to leave soon if she’s going to make her train. Still, she lingers by the punch table, hoping that Christen will make her way back in time for that dance. 

It’s stupid, she knows. Christen probably didn’t even mean it like that. She’s the CEO for goodness sakes. She probably would have said that to whoever she was dancing with at the time that she was dragged away. For business, Tobin reminds herself. Just because it’s their Christmas party doesn’t mean they don’t all still have jobs to do. She herself is coming in earlier than usual to make sure this conference room gets all cleaned up before Christmas itself. 

She’s about to give up hope, to pack it in and call it a night, when the conference door opens and in she strides. 

Tobin watches her approach a little slack-jawed. Somehow she looks even more stunning as she locks eyes with Tobin and smiles. The swish of her dress shouldn’t be audible over the music and the conversations around the room, but Tobin is sure she hears it anyway. 

“Sorry for taking so long,” Christen greets her with an apologetic smile. “Seems I’ll be working overtime over the holidays because some people don’t know when to call an uber.”

“They had a little too much fun?”

“Not my kind of fun,” Christen replies. 

“Oh? What’s your kind of fun?” It comes out flirtier than she means it to, and she can just barely see Christen raising an eyebrow behind her mask. Tobin’s on the verge of apologizing when Christen replies, “Wouldn’t you like to find out?” 

She takes Tobin’s hand and leads her back to the dance floor, pulling her in close. The music is slow and Christen wastes no time in pressing their bodies together, wrapping her arms around Tobin’s neck as they sway. “You promised me one more dance.”

Tobin swallows hard, tells herself not to get carried away, reminds herself she really should be going soon, but then Christen’s hand slides inside her coat, rests firmly on her hip, and, well, Tobin really does want this dance. 

“I guess I did,” she replies, giving in to what she wants. 

  
  


Two more songs have played before Tobin remembers herself. Her mind has been caught up in the warmth of Christen’s body, in the way she feels moving with her, the way they match each other step for step, sway for sway. When her eyes glance to the large clock on the wall she sees she’s out of time. 

She’s PAST out of time. 

“Shit! I’ve gotta go! I’ve gotta —”

She’s backing away, making her way towards the exit. 

“Wait! What? Why?” she hears Christen call after her. 

“Sorry! Gotta catch my train! Thank you for the party, Ms. Press!” she calls over her shoulder, shoving unceremoniously past Xander who is now swaying on his feet near the door. 

He wobbles and he grabs at her as he tries to catch his balance. His hand grabbing her mask as he does so. 

The ribbons holding it on come loose and he comes away with it in his hand, but she doesn’t have time to stop. She doesn’t have time to get it back from him. She’s probably going to miss her train as it is. 

She hears one more, “Wait!” called after her, but she just can’t, even if it means she has to have a meeting with HR after the holidays. She has to go. 

She runs through the halls and down the stairs, not bothering to wait for the elevator. She practically bursts through the doors to the building in her hurry and almost bowls over a few pedestrians in her mad dash to reach the subway. She jumps down the last few stairs, and mercifully she’s just swiping her card as the train pulls into the station. 

Her heart is pounding as she slips through the doors, and she can finally breathe a sigh of relief. She won’t have to get a hotel for tonight or pay some exorbitant amount for a taxi or an uber to take her home. She’ll be there to have pancakes with her nephew in the morning like she promised him. 

As relief settles over her, it mixes with something else. An inkling of regret wriggles its way into her mind as she thinks about dancing with Christen. How nice it would have been to finish up their song properly, to end the evening chatting with her. And then it hits her. Christen still probably doesn’t even know who she is. She never did ask her name, and Tobin never let it slip. 

But that was the point of the masquerade party, wasn’t it? That they could all be someone else for the night? She wasn’t Janitor Tobin and Christen wasn’t CEO Press, just for a night.

Now it’s back to reality, and in reality, they live in two very different worlds. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. by New Year's Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, hope you're having a wonderful Christmas Day!
> 
> It's been a fun experience to co-write a story with the very awesome Heath17_KO5. I hope you enjoy!

Part 2 

Christen's missing something. It's in the hum in her bloodstream. In the buzz in her brain. It feels like living through a day just _knowing_ the date's supposed to mean something, but never quite figuring out what that something is. She's missing the point, that much is obvious, but there's no context whatsoever to guide her in the right direction, so she has no choice but to let it sit and simmer. It's driving her crazy. So is this never ending stream of Christmas songs, by the way. There's a freaking limit on how many times a day a person can handle Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas", isn't there? Her limit is one. Or none, to be dead honest, but it seems to have grown into some kind of anthem over the years, unfortunately. She'll take Kelly Clarkson's "Underneath the Tree" over Miss Carey's earworm every single day from Thanksgiving to New Year's Eve, thank you very much.

Making a mental note to appoint a playlist maker for next year, Christen strides down a heavily decorated, brightly lit hallway of _Excellent Press_ , trying (and failing) to ignore the uptick in her heartbeat when she passes conference room 2. She's developed the annoying habit of _smiling_ at the most random of times. When she walks by CR2, for instance. Or when the friendly female janitor greets her in passing on her way out on late nights. The woman's smile always manages to brighten up her toughest days, but Christen's mind is preoccupied enough to not notice those kind brown eyes peeking at her from under the bill of an ever present baseball cap. She's too busy trying to piece together her Christmas puzzle.

Said puzzle stands at around five foot six, wears a mask and a _very_ Christmassy suit jacket while she traipses around Christen's big brain all day and all night long. When Christen thinks about her pretty problem, the feeling of missing the point grows to sleep interfering levels. There _has_ to be a way to solve this mystery before it drives her insane. All she has to go on is the gold colored mask left behind by her very own Cinderella. Finding it in Xander's hands had made her growl at the poor guy like a woman possessed, demanding he tell her where its owner disappeared to. When he’d been unable to, she’d asked if he at least knew her name. His face had been bright red as he’d stammered out, "I-I d-don’t know! I-I didn’t recognize her!"

"And you didn’t think to ask," Christen had been quick to realize. Of course he hadn’t. She’d growled again in frustration, so loudly that he’d taken an actual step back. Christen's sure he'll never dare look her way again.

Secretly pleased with that fact, she enters her spacious office, finding her way around her desk before sliding into her very comfortable chair. Tapping her computer to life to check her email, she's suddenly hit over the head with an idea. Her Princess Charming (yes, she's aware _she's_ the princess in this scenario if she wants to get technical, but whatever) works inside this very same building, has a desk of her own and is only an email away. Grasping the proverbial bull by its horns, she starts clicking away, eventually hitting send with hopeful satisfaction.

She really didn't think this through, did she? Sending out a poll regarding public transportation, she'd expected a maximum amount of ten, maybe twenty responses. She now has to plow her way through at least a hundred and twenty emails _and_ come up with a plan to finance travel expenses for all hundred and twenty office workers taking the train into work. Also, there's like a snowball's chance in hell she's going to find Cinderella in her inbox now. _Fuck!_ Now what?

It's when GranFran visits two days after Christmas that pieces of the puzzle start falling into place. With the mask never far from reach, it's not uncommon to find Christen fiddling with it at home. GranFran recognizes it instantly, but she can't let Christen know that. She has to let the magic of the mask run its course, which doesn't mean she can't offer her dramatically dense granddaughter a push in the right direction, of course.

It takes one simple question to get Christen to start rambling. About the party and the woman and the dance and the mask. About the abrupt and confusing ending of their evening together and of her fear of never finding the owner of the mask she can't stop touching. GranFran nods and smiles in all the right places, about to burst at the seams from all the knowledge she's harnessing, but is unable to share.

There has to be some sort of loophole, GranFran thinks, her brain whirring trying to find it. She wants Christen to find love with her office party Cinderella and knowing exactly who that is and what she looks like is tearing in her halves, but Christen has to make that connection without GranFran's explicit interference. That is the Christmas Angel code, after all. 

"Why are you so hung up on this woman?" GranFran asks, genuinely curious to hear the answer. Seeing Tobin with her own two eyes and knowing Christen's preferences, she can probably make an educated guess, but she wants Christen to break it down. Draw conclusions of her own. Make the connection.

Christen doesn't hesitate to answer. "She was just so down to earth, Gran. And modest. Like in a humble way? I don't know," she pauses, trying to find the words for her jumbling feelings. "Most people at work have such big personalities and they always make sure they're seen and heard. She's nothing like that."

"How do you know?" GranFran challenges. "That she's nothing like that?"

Christen shrugs. "I just do. She was a little shy with me? I think I made her blush when I walked up to her," she chuckles. "But she was very respectful. Well, up until she hauled ass right out of there and left me with nothing but this pretty puzzle piece."

GranFran watches as long fingers start tracing the curves of the mask she knows so well. Watches as Christen threatens to lose herself in thought again. "Would you recognize her?" GranFrans asks. "Without the mask, I mean," she clarifies.

Christen squints her eyes in contemplation as she thinks about her real hard, but in the end it's such an easy answer. "Definitely," she states and she means it. Those eyes? That smile? Quite hard to forget or so the last couple of days have taught her. There's no way this woman could walk past her and not make Christen's head turn. It's what makes this whole thing so darn frustrating. She should _know_ this woman. She _works_ with her, for crying out loud. She should've just swallowed her pride at the party. Should've tried for a name or at least the woman's job description. She's not too proud _now_ to admit she's circled every floor and department at least twice looking for those deep brown eyes and that dazzling smile. Without success, obviously (and to her everlasting frustration).

"Then why didn't she seem familiar at the party?" GranFran keeps poking the fire. She needs Christen to look further than her nose is long. Branch out, so to speak, a term her very successful CEO grandkid uses loosely when she talks about work.

"Huh," Christen murmurs, a look of genuine wonder on her face, not one step closer to finding an answer, but GranFran just knows the gears in Christen's big brain will keep grinding until she does.

~

Tobin, in the meantime, is driving Lauren crazy with her hot and cold routine. She switches between wanting to reveal the truth to Christen — she _deserves_ to, Tobin slurs after one too many eggnogs — and quitting her job altogether, just so she can avoid running into Christen and _not_ have the other woman recognize her. Again. She's taken to hiding in bathrooms and stairwells whenever she hears the distinct sound of a pair of heels click-clacking down the corridors. It's pathetic. She's aware. Mostly because chances are very small of those heels actually belonging to Christen. Still, _Excellent Press'_ s lavatories have never been cleaner than they are these days, courtesy of Tobin's cowardice.

There's also the small problem of losing the mask. She'll have to tell that darling shop owner she's unable to return the gift so generously bestowed upon her. Maybe the truth - the whole story - will earn her some sympathy points, but Tobin's already thinking of ways to make it up to the little old lady for losing such a precious trinket. It had been handed to her with a certain amount of reverence, telling of how important the mask is to the little old lady and Tobin could kick herself for being so careless with it. She's still kinda hoping someone found it. She'll keep an eye on the coffee corner bulletin board just in case.

Thinking back to that night, her first thought is of Christen, of course. The way she'd called out for Tobin to wait and how she'd sounded the tiniest bit desperate, as if _begging_ Tobin to stay. In her weakest moments, she clings to that, no matter how much her brain is telling her she's fooling herself. The little devil on her shoulder — the one that feasts on her insecurities — tells her that there's no way she'll measure up to Christen's standards while its angelic sister berates her for thinking of Christen so lowly. She wants to believe it. That 'CEO Press' is nothing but a label stitched into the woman's Gucci pant suits and as soon as she sheds those threads — And yeah, let's stop it right there. That sounded sleazy even in her own head. Anyway, what it comes down to is this. Tobin's crush on her boss has reached adulthood, Lauren swears fealty to virgin eggnog for future Christmases and exactly nothing is resolved by New Year's Eve.

~

On the other side of town, Christen is found sitting behind her desk, twirling the now familiar mask between her fingers. She's tried it on, but it doesn't fit. It makes her wonder. Rose is her first victim. No fit, as expected. The hard materials of the mask make it impossible to mould into shape, further fueling Christen's tentative suspicions that it'll fit one face only. A quick fantasy of sending a 'Royal Decree' teases her brain, but she nixes it right after. They'll have her declared unfit to lead the company and spending New Year's Eve in a padded room doesn't really fit her plans, so she needs to be discrete.

Studying the lines of the mask — its dips and planes — she tries to remember how it looked on Cinderella. High forehead, Christen remembers. Almond shaped eyes, precise color yet to be determined. They'd seemed to shift with the woman's mood, hazel when playful and a rich whiskey color when focused solely on Christen while they'd danced. (She wants it back, the feeling of Cinderella's eyes on her. To be the one capturing the woman's undivided attention. It's that want, specifically, driving Christen's search party, because just the taste of it isn't enough. She wants the full course meal, no matter how glutinous it makes her sound.)

Back to daydreaming. Sure, she could call it 'research', but she isn't fooling anyone, least of all herself. Christen greedily proceeds to recall the deep parentheses framing full lips and the pretty smile she can't stop thinking about. GranFran's question keeps her up at night. Why _didn't_ Cinderella's appearance ring any bells that night? Christen prides herself on her new employee etiquette, always making sure to personally meet and greet the newbies. Did she miss this one while out of office or in a meeting? Was Rose lucky enough to welcome her into the fold? All these questions and not one answer and it makes her want to cry. Well, not while at work, of course, but all bets are off once she's home for the evening. She'll drown herself in Baileys Apple Pie, tearing up over sad and sullen end of the year songs, only to probably descend into a bout of ugly crying as she drunkenly belts along to Kelly Clarkson's Christmas album.

Rolling her eyes at her own dramatics, Christen makes up her mind. If making a fool out of herself will maybe, hopefully get her the girl, then that's what she's going to do. She'll start with the few workaholics still sitting behind their desks, hoping they like her well enough to humor her just this once as she asks them to try on the mask made for one face only.

Christen feels her coworkers aren't surprised enough by her random request. Some of them even throw her suspiciously knowing looks when she asks them to try on a mask for no reason at all. Of the fifteen people gamely trying to make the thing stick, none of them come close to filling it out perfectly. It doesn't shock her, because not one of her coworkers stands out to her like she knows her mystery woman would. It leaves her a little disappointed, but not discouraged. Sure, it would've been nice to ring in the new year with a little more knowledge on the subject of Cinderella, but she's not giving up just yet. Better still, Christen has found her very first New Year's resolution ever.

Christen also starts paying a lot more attention to the comings and goings of regular visitors and other business relations. With GranFran's words lingering in the back of her mind, she wonders if she should start widening her search area a little bit, but who else but direct colleagues would want to attend an _Excellent Press_ office party? And there's that familiar buzz again, that annoying little hum in her bloodstream. She feels like she should know the answers to her own questions, just like she still feels like she should have recognized her Christmas party dance partner. Christen's sure she knows her. Knows _of_ her, at the very least. The words 'brown eyes, big smile' run through her mind like a mantra and they should've rung that effing bell by now, but the only bells she hears ringing all day are at the very start of that gosh darn Mariah Carey monstrosity and if she wasn't over it before, she sure as hell is now. She's done for the day, leaving uncharacteristically early, but it's New Year's Eve day or whatever and she plans to start celebrating the minute she gets home.

~

The minute she gets home, however, the door opens before she has a chance to put her key in the lock. GranFran's smiling face greets her as if the woman works the door there all day, every day.

"You're home early," she states the obvious as she gestures for Christen to take her hat and coat off. Dutifully swiping the knit beanie from her head, she starts unbuttoning her waist length puffer jacket, feeling a little like a school kid coming in from playing in the snow. Walking into her apartment, she's not surprised by the scent of hot cocoa and apple strudel permeating the air. The smells make her feel nostalgic. They awaken a deep longing for Holidays past inside of her and she's very happy all of a sudden for GranFran's presence. Diving into the woman's arms, she can't stop the onset of tears, safely weeping into the soft silk of GranFran's festive blouse. She'll feel guilty about it later. For now, she just really needs a cleansing cry.

Showered and fed (on apple strudel and heaps of whipped cream), Christen sinks into one corner of the couch while GranFran claims the other. It's barely six and already she feels drowsy with sleep. GranFran tells her to rest her eyes, but the moment she closes them, she's thinking of _her_ and all her frustrations about the situation come rushing back. Is trying to find her really worth all the time and effort she's putting into it? What if Cinderella wants nothing to do with her? What if she just wanted a fun evening and is now living it up at some New Year's Eve party, making other women fall completely under her spell? Maybe they could start a club, Christen scoffs to herself, the sour thought anything but amusing.

Resting her eyes is clearly not in the books for her tonight, so she scoots closer to GranFran until she practically forces the woman to wrap an arm around her, finding solace in her soothing voice and the way bony fingers comb through her curls. She would love to someday spend nights like these with a romantic partner, but at least she's spending this one with a woman she loves. GranFran's getting older and no one lives forever, so she grabs every opportunity to spend these precious moments with this very special lady. Who knows how much time they have left?

~

Tobin has no trouble working on Holidays, but she's still feeling a bit off after Christmas. Being in this building doesn't really help matters. She knows she's the only one here. Well, the only one on this floor, that is. She had a quick chat with Dagny just before their shifts started, but Dagny's working one floor below, leaving Tobin all by her lonesome. With rap music blasting from her earpods, she grabs her cart to start the bin cycle. There are days she's seriously contemplating her life decisions when she finds herself emptying other people's trash cans, but it's honest work and it pays enough to make ends meet and that, in the end, is what's most important.

Usually, she's not one to worry about other people's opinion of her, but she can't help but wonder. She may have read the situation wrong, but Tobin's memories tell her she and Christen forged a wonderful connection that night. Would Christen care about the way she earns a living? Would she have approached Tobin at all, had she known? Does Christen still think about that night as often as Tobin does? Is she looking for her?

Shaking her head to rid her mind of all these useless and frustrating questions, she pushes her cart on to the next cubicle, determined to focus on the job and not on the woman with the pretty green eyes whose executive office is on her to do list tonight. It's a sobering thought. A bucket of ice water down her back on a hot summer day kind of sobering, but it also settles something inside of her. There's regret, most certainly, but also acceptance that Christen and her will never be anything more than familiar strangers passing each other with courteous nods and fleeting glances. 

Now determined to get Christen out of her system, Tobin stalks up to the woman's office door. The bronze plaque stating 'C. A. Press, CEO' only solidifies Tobin's feelings on the subject. There's just no way this was ever going to end differently than it is now. She pushes the door open, steers her cart inside. Detecting motion, the smart overhead lights illuminate the space as soon as Tobin enters. A reflection of light catches her attention, drawing her gaze to the surface of Christen's enormous desk and every item on it. Tobin gasps. Right there, on top of important looking papers, sits a gold colored mask. _Tobin's_ gold colored mask.

She picks it up with trembling fingers, happy to have it in her hands again so she can return it to its rightful owner. Should she just take it? Job security is still nice, though, and stealing from your boss is probably the most efficient way to lose it, but she _needs_ to return this mask. Would a quick note save her from being arrested/fired/blacklisted for eternity? Sheesh, more questions. And just when she thought this whole … _thing_ to be over too. With her music playing loud and her attention on her current dilemma, she doesn't hear the ding of the elevator, nor the footsteps coming her way.

~

Quite enjoying their New Year's Eve together, the Press women don't really move from their nest on the couch unless they absolutely have to. Bathroom breaks are such an occasion, of course, but so's a booze run or a quick trip to the pantry to refill empty chips bowls and fruit plates. They're having fun, Christen thinks, something she didn't think possible mere hours ago, but she's convinced GranFran must be made of magic. She always knows exactly what Christen needs and tonight is no exception. They talk quietly about myriad things, snickering guiltily while they gossip about less popular family members. The buzz in her brain is now more Baileys related than anything else (she's such a lightweight) as is the hum in her bloodstream. She doesn't want to think about it and for the better part of the evening, she's successful in suppressing her thoughts and feelings on the subject of Cinderella. Until one specific thought hits her like a jackhammer and everything inside of her screeches to a halt. The mask. She didn't bring it home. She _left_ it at the office. On her desk. It could be the alcohol talking, but she _needs_ that mask. Has carried it with her like some sort of comfort blanket for the past few days and being without it, _realizing_ she's without it, has her on the brink of a panic attack in seconds.

"GranFran, you have to take me to the office!" Had she been completely sober, Christen probably would've noticed the knowing grin pulling at the older woman's lips. As it is, Christen needs all her alcohol soaked brain cells to put her shoes on properly. Not that she's drunk, but she's just tipsy enough to go after the things she wants without getting stuck on potential repercussions and that's the Christen she needs to be tonight.

GranFran happily wraps her granddaughter back up in her coat and beanie. Carefully trotting down the single flight of stairs leading down to the parking lot, she can't help but feel excited. Christen may not know it yet, but her life is about to change for the better and GranFran can't wait to take credit for it for the rest of her time on earth (and also the rest of eternity, but she's willing to start small before _branching out_ ). She needs to act fast, though, because Christen may be an inexperienced drinker, she also recovers ridiculously fast. GranFran thinks it's the bit of magic dust in her DNA, courtesy of the Christmas Angel herself, of course.

Stepping on it (or: doing thirty five in a thirty zone), GranFran steers them through town, making sure to keep an eye out for inebriated party goers and other obstacles. When they reach _Excellent Press_ , Christen's out of the car before it stops rolling. GranFran rolls her eyes at the slam of the car door, saving the yelling for another day. Christen's on a mission which happens to actually be GranFran's mission, so she'll let it slide. It's for a good cause and all that. She watches as Christen enters the building and waits until she sees the elevator first come down and then go up. With her part completed, GranFran backs out of the parking spot and heads back to her grandbaby's apartment, trusting Tobin to get Christen home safe and sound.

~

Stepping off the elevator, Christen's surprised to find herself in a brightly lit hallway. It takes a moment for her synapses to fire, but one look at the clock tells her it must be the cleaning crew coming through. She stalks down the corridor, silently hoping to avoid the janitor in the state she's in. No such luck, of course, because luck refuses to befriend her these days. It's obvious in the way she's not only unable to avoid normal human interaction, but she has to "perform" while wearing a red reindeer patterned onesie underneath a purple puffer jacket and GranFran's yellow trainers. After everything she's been through this past week, doesn't she deserve a break right about now?

The night janitor doesn't notice her entering until Christen walks past her. The woman jumps in fright, letting out a rather rude expletive as she grabs for her sternum. A dull thud makes them both look down. Christen's eyes widen in recognition as the janitor's eyes widen in fear. Finally looking up at the startled woman's face, Christen's brain stalls.

_Those eyes!_

_It's her!_

The woman's talking, but Christen isn't hearing any words. All she can focus on is the unreal fact that her office party Cinderella's standing right in front of her. She recognizes her now. Brown eyes, big smile. Christen wants to slap herself for being so oblivious, because she _knows_ this woman. Maybe not like she knows other coworkers, but still. She now understands the buzz and hum, the on-the-tip-of-your-tongue kind of feeling when thinking back to that night. She's _here_. And she's still _talking_. Maybe now would be a good time to actually tune in?

"I'm _so_ sorry, Ms. Press. I swear I didn't touch anything else in here. It's just that… I mean… Oh, man. I don't know _what_ I mean," the still nameless janitor stammers. "Just know that I'm sorry and I'll hand in my keys after my shift tonight." Christen watches as broad shoulders drop in resignation, the woman clearly convinced she's being fired.

"Back to Ms. Press again, huh?" Christen teases, her own shock taking a backseat to Cinderella's discomfort.

"You're my boss and we're at work," Cinderella's low voice tells her as she crosses her arms over her chest. She feels unsafe, Christen deduces. Insecure.

Picking up the mask, Christen takes one step closer to the closed off janitor and offers it to her. "Does this make it easier to talk to me, Ms…?" There's an audible question mark as she trails off, a clear invitation for the woman to finally tell Christen her name.

"Heath," Tobin murmurs as she takes the mask. "Tobin Heath."

Christen nods, glad to finally learn Cinderella's real name. "Tobin," she repeats. "Or would you like me to call you Ms. Heath?" It's obvious she's teasing and the resulting blush on Tobin's face can't be helped. Same goes for Christen's heart palpitations at Tobin's shy smile. She can't stop staring at it. At _her_ . It's _really_ her. Christen wants to squeal, but that could very well still be the Baileys talking.

"Put it on?" Christen asks instead of giving in to the urge to make high pitched noises telling of her excitement. Asking a girl to reveal herself by hiding herself sounds like a much better plan. She watches as Tobin brings the mask up to her face, then pauses before putting it on.

"Will it change anything?" Tobin questions. "Me being ... _this_ ," she finishes as she gestures at her cart and her coveralls and Christen understands what she's asking.

"It won't," Christen promises, hoping that Tobin hears the conviction in her words.

The mask fits. Of course it does. It seals itself around Tobin's face like a second skin. Expecting this outcome, Christen's still in awe with how well it fits that perfectly angular face. She wants to touch the skin left uncovered, but it feels too intimate. Too soon.

"It _is_ you," Christen whispers as she's finally able to put the last piece of the puzzle into place. "I can't believe I didn't see it."

"Yeah, I was a little bummed about that," Tobin confesses as she takes off the mask.

"You were? How come?"

Tobin shrugs, one hand on the back of her neck while the other disappears inside the left pocket of her coveralls. She doesn't dare admit to her little crush on Christen pre Christmas party. They're not in high school anymore and at the end of the day (or the start of it since it's nearing midnight), Christen's still her employer and Tobin's still very much clocked in. "Just was."

Letting her off the hook, Christen doesn't push for a better answer. If she plays her cards right, there will be plenty of time left to ask embarrassing questions. For now, she just wants to spend some time with Tobin — a.k.a. she's refusing to let the woman out of her sight for the foreseeable future — even if that means spending the rest of New Year's Eve in her place of work. Plucking her phone from her jacket pocket to text GranFran her change of plans, she finds GranFran's beaten her to the punch. There's a text waiting for her telling her she's been abandoned followed by the confounding words, "Who needs luck when you have magic? Tell Cinderella I expect her to see you home safely." It ends with the winky face emoji and a gif of a beating heart. What the hell?

"You know my GranFran?" Christen demands.

"Your Gran— what?" Tobin's genuine confusion tells her she's not part of some elaborate setup by her crazy family. She _knows_ how eager they are for her to find love, always worrying about her and her outrageous business hours. How she's all work and no play. She wouldn't put it past them to cook up a scheme like this just to have her meet someone.

"Never mind," Christen sighs in defeat. "You're taking me home, by the way. GranFran's orders."

Tobin looks a little lost at the quick pace of Christen's thought process. "Okay?"

"Okay," Christen nods, sending back a thumbs up emoji before pocketing her phone. She'll save the hard questions for tomorrow. GranFran has some explaining to do.

"When does your shift end?" Christen asks, wondering how long she'll have to wait before they can get out of there and really enjoy their little reunion.

"I should be done in an hour," Tobin guesstimates, knowing she'll have to put in a few extra hours tomorrow to make up for time missed tonight. She doesn't want to ring in the new year wearing coveralls and she certainly doesn't want Christen to ring in the new year behind her desk. She'll have them out of there before the clock strikes midnight, she'll make sure of it.

At a quarter past eleven, she finds CEO Press at her desk, feet up and eyes closed. She should look ridiculous in her bright red onesie and yellow sneakers, but Tobin falls a little bit in love with this utterly relaxed version of Christen. With her curls down, tucked away in her purple jacket, she looks like a kid waiting up for Santa. Tobin hopes this is what future Christmases will bring her. She hates to jump the gun, but there's nothing wrong with wanting things for herself. Lauren's been telling her so for years, but this is the first time she actually _wants_ something, so she wishes for it at eleven twenty five on New Year's Eve, hoping it's really true what they say. How you spend your New Year's Eve is how you spend the rest of the year. She hopes she's lucky enough for it to come true.

"Christen? It's nearing midnight. I'm taking you home."

Christen doesn't open her eyes, but her cheeky grin gives away the fact that she's not sleeping. "Great. I'm wearing trainers. I think I can actually keep up with you this time."

"You're not funny," Tobin tells her as she tries to hide her smile.

"You're lying," Christen singsongs as she gets up from her chair and heads straight for Tobin. She can actually hear the janitor gulp as she brushes past her and it's quite the complement to have such an effect on a woman while wearing pajamas with a beanie. This bodes well for future encounters. Picking up the forgotten mask and tugging her backpack from the handles of her cart, Tobin happily chases after her. Happy New Year indeed.

They don't have to sprint to catch a train this time. Tobin's driving her home in a borrowed Toyota. It's a little dented — Tobin swears she had nothing to do with it — and it smells like a pine forest on steroids, but it's clean and does what it's supposed to do. Ever the gentlewoman, Tobin insists on opening Christen's car door for her, both times, and she follows GranFran's orders to the letter by dropping Christen off at her front door. Once again, it opens without its owner's interference, showing them GranFran's gleeful face through its widening crack. She stares at Tobin with an expectant look, waiting for the penny to drop. When it does, it does so with a clang, but GranFran shakes her head from just behind Christen to stop her from crying out. "Soon," she mouths, pointing at her watch to remind Tobin it's almost twelve.

"Thank you for bringing Christen home, dear. I'll let you two say your goodbyes."

"Sorry about that," Christen blushes. "She's a bit overprotective of her grandchildren."

"No worries," Tobin shrugs, a motion that's quickly starting to grow on Christen. "I like knowing you have people looking out for you."

"So," Christen tries after a few seconds of silence. "At the risk of sounding super unprofessional, would you like to go on a date with me?"

"Are you really going to get in trouble by asking me out?" Tobin wants to know. If Christen's answer is yes, then hers will have to be no.

"It would be worth it, but no," Christen admits. "Tobin, I've been looking for you since the night of the party and I kind of want to see you again after tonight. Preferably outside of work, but don't feel like you have to say yes. The only thing that could possibly cause trouble for me would be forcing you into anything … untoward."

"As long as you're sure," Tobin tells her.

"Is that a yes?"

Tobin's "Yes!" comes at the stroke of midnight, coinciding with the first chime of twelve. It takes four chimes more to take one step closer. Two chimes more leave not an inch of space between them.

At chime number ten, Tobin's respectful "May I?" and Christen's nod at the twelfth.

With fireworks going off all around them — and how appropriate is _that_? — they kiss for the very first time. One small peck, then two. Then the door behind them opens and Tobin's quick reflexes are the only thing saving Christen from tumbling into her apartment ass over teakettle.

"GranFran!" Christen hollers from the comfort of Tobin's arms. Hold up. This actually feels kind of great. 

GranFran smirks at her, knowing exactly what Christen's thinking. "You're welcome," she teases, her cheekiness making Tobin laugh. The sound draws GranFran's attention, her dark brown eyes now finding Tobin's own. The mask makes no mistakes, she knows, but with her granddaughter's tender heart involved, GranFran needs to see it for herself. The good in Tobin. Her power to love and her courage to fight for the people that matter to her. She's seen enough for now, knowing she'll have ample opportunity to get to know this woman. Well, God willing, of course. She's not going to live forever, but knowing Christen is in good hands will make it a whole lot easier to let go when the time comes. With a wink, she releases her spell on Tobin, throwing out a "Happy New Year, kids!" before she walks inside again, making sure the gold colored mask dangling from her fingers remains unseen. 

"When will I see you again?" Christen wonders out loud and now that it's out there, it sounds like a legitimate question.

"Soon," Tobin tells her, leaning in to seal that promise with another kiss. Knowing she'll have to be up in less than five hours to finish the job at _Excellent Press_ , she pulls back regretfully, telling Christen she has to go.

Walking backwards down the corridor, Tobin waves at Christen Press in her ridiculous onesie and her hideous sneakers and her garishly purple puffer jacket. She's the most beautiful woman Tobin has ever seen and when she wakes up in a couple of hours, she'll need a moment or two to convince herself that all of this is really happening. She'll remember the mask and she'll jump out of bed to fish it from the depths of her backpack. She'll find it gone, of course, but she won't panic. Somehow, she'll know it's back where it belongs. She won't know _how_ she'll know this, she just will.

Must be magic.


End file.
